Under Wraps
by Alis Grave Nil
Summary: The penguins are four-man team given a dangerous assignment. When evidence leads them to a small group of people in New York, they must to go undercover to investigate, but they fall into something much bigger than them. Eventual S/M and K/R.
1. Prologue

**Under Wraps**

**Prologue**

It wasn't dark like he had expected. The room was well-lit, to a point where it was almost blinding. Private raised a hand in an attempt to shield his eyes, though it was difficult when his wrists were cuffed together. He was seated at a table in a chair that creaked a little too much for his own liking. To his left there was a mirror that took up almost the entire wall. He'd watched enough TV to know that it was only a mirror on one side. On the other side, people were watching him.

The doorknob turned and Private held his breath. A man entered, dressed in a crisp, clean-cut suit. Just like everyone else that worked there. Private recognized him, though. His name was Jacob Canfield. He'd never known him personally, but he'd seen him before. Skipper hated him.

"State your name," Canfield ordered.

Private took a deep breath to steady himself. "Private First Class Collin Fisher."

Canfield sat down across from him, opening a file he'd carried in with him. "Have you ever been in one of these rooms before, Collin?"

"No sir."

"Seen it on TV?"

"Yes sir."

"Then you know how this works." He turned a page in the file. Private knew what was in there. It was all about him. His history... medical records, psychological reports, fears, mistakes... "It says here that you're nineteen, Collin."

"Yes sir," Private repeated.

"Tell me, Collin... how does a boy so young end up mixed up in all this?"

Straight forward. Private swallowed the lump in his throat. "With all due respect, sir, I don't believe I've gotten myself mixed up in anything."

* * *

"Daniel Kowalski."

Canfield remained standing, his hands resting on the back of the chair across from Kowalski. Kowalski sat up straight, his hands folded neatly on his lap. He knew this man, though only fleetingly.

"I hear you're the brains of the group, Daniel" Canfield started, eyes unwavering on him.

"Some might be inclined to say that, yes," Kowalski responded easily.

"Would you be inclined to say that?"

He paused for a moment, considering the question carefully. "My teammates are far from stupid... but I suppose, yes, I would say that I am the 'brains' of the group."

"You must've cooked this whole thing up, then." Canfield accused, narrowing his eyes.

Kowalski held his eyes steadily. "I apologize Mr. Canfield, but I don't believe I know what you're talking about."

"Don't play dumb with me, Kowalski."

"Is this the same tactic you used on Private? No... you wanted to make him feel comfortable, right? Not scare him. You won't get a word out of either of us," he told the man across from him, leaning forward a little, as if telling him a secret. "There's nothing to tell."

* * *

"..."

"I'll repeat. State. Your. Name."

Rico sat with his cuffed wrists hanging between his knees, eyes fixated on the frustrated agent across the table. He'd yet to speak since the man walked in, despite being ordered to several times over.

"Your hostility is not helping you," Canfield growled. No reaction. He pushed it a little farther. "Or your teammates."

Rico's eyebrow twitched, wavering a moment. "Rico," he stated roughly, though his glare remained.

"And your last name."

"Aguilar."

"Good." Canfield relaxed a little, taking a seat and folding his hands on the table. He leaned forward a little, meeting Rico's eyes. "Your medical profile says that you're sociopathic and psychopathic... It was the reason you were kicked out. Why were you allowed on this team?"

Rico shrugged.

Canfield narrowed his eyes. "I bet you were used to handle the dirty work, weren't you?"

"No."

* * *

"You know my name."

"It's for the record," Canfield snapped. "State your name."

"It's not for the record. It's about control."

Canfield leaned over the table, glaring. "State your name."

He sighed, rolling his eyes. "Jackson Rhodes."

"And where does the alias 'Skipper' come from?"

Skipper snorted out a soft laugh. He stood up from his chair, approaching the mirror at the side of the room and studying Canfield through the reflection. "It's not an alias. It's just a nickname."

"Then where does that nickname come from?" Canfield responded. He met Skipper's eyes through the mirror, making sure he knew that he was being watched.

"I don't see how that's important," he answered, glaring at the agent over his shoulder.

Canfield fell silent for a moment, standing and closing the distance between them. Their eyes locked, neither willing to back down from the challenge. "It's not. However, if you want to get straight into business we can."

"Yes, let's."

"You're the leader of those men?"

"Yes I am," Skipper answered confidently. He had nothing to hide... nothing that they'd ask about anyways.

"You think you're so smart, training your team?" Canfield asked. "One of them will break."

"Even if they did," he growled, "which they won't, you wouldn't get anything out of them. Because there's nothing to tell."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. Ask them as much as you like. They'll all tell you the same thing. They're innocent."

"They're innocent," Canfield repeated lowly. "But are you?"

"Yes," Skipper barked. "Quit with the mind games."

Their stare down continued for several moments longer before Camfield was forced to look away. "Fine then. Tell me what happened."


	2. Rangoon

**Under Wraps**

**Chapter 1: Rangoon**

It was the hottest part of the year in Rangoon, Burma. Many of the locals were used to the heat, going about as usual, but tourists trapped themselves under whatever shade they could find, seeking shelter from the sun. The marketplace was packed with people, all mulling about their day, bartering on the prices of the products set up at the hundreds of stands. Sitting at a small table beneath a wide open umbrella was a young man, whose pale skin showed that he was not from those parts. His dark hair was cut to a medium length, his bangs falling over his brows, just short over covering his baby blue eyes. He was dressed in black slacks, sensible black shoes, a white button-up shirt, and a black waistcoat. At that particular moment in time, he dreaded the slightly-altered uniform, but there was nothing he could do but tolerate it and chug water whenever possible.

Private smiled at people as they walked by, acting as a friendly tourist as he kept a careful eye on the crowds of people going about their day. There was a little microphone set at his ear, a communication link to his teammates. His baby blues fixated in one direction as the ocean of people suddenly began to part as if pushed by some unseen force. Upon closer observation, he spotted three men walking through the crowds, dressed in clothing that looked as if it could be worth more than an entire stand at the market.

Men of power.

"Skippa, K'walski," Private spoke into his earpiece. "They're headed your way."

* * *

"Thank you, Private."

Kowalski was knelt down in front of a door, or rather the electronic lock on it. His black suit coat was on the ground and the sleeves of his white button-up shirt were rolled up past his elbows as they so often were when he was working. He wore the same black slacks as Private and the same sensible shoes, but with an addition of black suspenders and a black tie, attached to his shirt with a little silver clip to keep it from getting in his way. He had short black hair and a pair of chocolate brown eyes that were covered by goggles. He was very pale, as if he spent most of his free time indoors, which would be an accurate assumption.

Using a few select tools, he unlocked the door and set the electronic lock back into place, looking as pretty and new as it did before. He stood up, brushing the dust from his knees before pushing open the door. "From Private's location, they should be here in exactly six and a half minutes," he said.

"Good. Get into position."

Skipper swept past Kowalski into the room. He, unlike his teammates, had not altered his uniform in the slightest. He wore a full black suit with a white button-up shirt and a black silk tie. His charcoal hair was slicked back, not a single strand out of place. He had a light tan that came from spending a good part of your life outdoors. He had bright blue eyes that were stern and always steady, never wavering even under the pressure that his job so often put on him.

"Good luck, Skipper."

Skipper was an old nickname, one that he'd never quite shaken, nor had he ever bothered trying to. He responded to it almost better than the name his mother had given him. "Luck isn't even a factor, Kowalski." He closed the door, making sure it was locked again before he turned to the room. It was a luxury suite. Most people in that city couldn't come close to affording it. As beautiful as Burma was, it was all just an image. Scratch the surface and you saw it for what it was. A broke nation tangled in a web of drug trades that ran too deep, and held too much money for anyone to do much about. However, his team had recently been assigned to weed out a heroin cartel that had been getting involved with the states after someone had received a lead.

That's why they were here.

The room was decorated in light colors, probably to keep the sun from being absorbed. There was artwork on the walls, and comfortable furniture all about. On one side of the room were three large windows that gave a gorgeous view of the city, as well as what was going on in it. Skipper found a seat on a white leather sofa, his back to the glass.

"Rico, are you ready?"

* * *

"Yup."

Rico had been standing in the same spot for nearly twenty minutes. He stood by a small window in a ratty old hotel room on one of the upper stories. The cable of the blinds was wrapped around the barrel of his WA2 sniper rifle in order to keep it steady. If he peered through the scope, he could see inside the luxury suite where Skipper sat. He chuckled as he realized he could align the cross hairs to point at Skipper, directly at the back of his head

Suddenly, the leader glanced over his shoulder and glared at him, as if reading his mind from all the way over there.

"_Don't even think about it soldier,_"

The words in Rico's ear didn't quite match up with the movements of Skipper's mouth. An innocent smile spread across Rico's lips, despite knowing that he wouldn't see it from so far away.

Rico stood out, perhaps most from the group. His raven hair was styled in messy spikes down the middle, nearly black eyes with dark circles around them adding to his untamed image. His skin was naturally darker than the others, a soft brown. He'd completely gotten rid of the suit coat and white button-up of his uniform, instead sporting a white wife-beater and a thick black tench coat with a ridiculous amount of pockets. It was heavy, but somehow the heat didn't affect him, nor did the coat slow him down.  
His teammates marked it up as only one of many bizarre things about him.

* * *

Skipper removed his earpiece, pocketing it for safekeeping. He couldn't let them know that he had others with him. He relaxed back into the leather couch, his arms settling on the back and his feet kicking up on the coffee table about a foot away. He was a picture of relaxation.

The doorknob turned and Skipper's eyes narrowed a fraction. The three men from the market strolled in. The first one that noticed him nearly jumped out of his skin. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded. The other two immediately reached for their belts. Skipper knew it was to grab a gun, but the first man - Skipper pegged him to be the leader - held up a hand to stop them.

"Oh, I'm just here to cut a deal with you about your drug trades," Skipper answered, never once moving from his spot. "This is the place I need to be, isn't it?"

The man cautiously circled around the coffee table, sitting on a couch opposite of him. "I don't know what you're talking about," he answered in a thick, Burmese accent. "You are breaking and entering. Get out now."

Skipper reached into the front pocket of his suit, pulling out a stack of bills and tossing them on the coffee table. "I think you do know what I'm talking about."

There was a brief silence as the leader eyed the money. He motioned for one of his goons to look at it. A large, husky man stepped forward, taking it and flipping through the bills that were held together by a rubber band. "It's a lot of money..." he said, holding a bill up to the light. "Looks authentic."

The leader's gaze fell on Skipper. "What kind of a deal are we talking here, Mr...?"

"Rhodes."

"Mr. Rhodes." He stood up, moving to a small cart that held various bottles of liquors and glasses. "Would you like a drink, Mr. Rhodes?"

Skipper's eyebrow twitched. He didn't particularly want one, but he had to step carefully. "I'll take whatever you're having," he answered coolly. The leader made two glasses of straight scotch, crossing the room again to hand Skipper his glass. He only sipped the drink. He wouldn't let his judgment become impaired.

"So again... what kind of deal are we talking about here, Mr. Rhodes?"

"It's simple enough Mr. Aye," Skipper answered. "I'm looking to speak to your boss about getting a little cut myself."

The man snorted in disbelief. "No one speaks to my boss," Aye answered. "I don't even speak to my boss. And he sure as hell would not cut in someone he doesn't know."

"Really?" Skipper asked. "'Cause I think you're lying to me." Hand still resting on the back of the couch, he flicked his wrist a little, giving a sign. Suddenly the window behind him shattered, followed quickly by a finely painted vase sitting across the room. It was a bullet.

The men all jumped and whirled around, eyes going wide. Aye growled, turning to Skipper and pulling out a gun. By the time he had it pointed at him, Skipper had done the same.

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Aye growled again, eyes flickering up. There were all sorts of buildings and windows, and they hadn't heard the gunshot. There was no way they could determine where it had come from. He lowered his gun.

"Good," Skipper smiled. "Now I want any information you have on this little heroin ring you have."

* * *

As Skipper walked out of the building, Kowalski quickly came up to his side. He held his hand out, taking the files that Skipper handed him. "They've probably already called for some help," Skipper told him, moving briskly. "I'll get Private, you get Rico. We'll meet at the airport."

Kowalski nodded and they split. The intellectual turned to a sprint, heading for the cheap hotel where Rico was. "Rico," he said into his earpiece, "meet me outside." There was only a soft grunt of response on the other line. When he got to the front of the hotel, Rico was standing by a black Toyota truck, picking the lock.

"Again?" Kowalski asked. He hated stealing cars. At least Rico made sure to wear gloves this time so as not to leave fingerprints. Kowalski reached into his pocket, pulling out a pair for himself.

Rico shrugged and the door clicked open. When the alarm sounded, Kowalski moved to the front, popping open the engine. He reached to the back, pulling out the wire that set off the alarm. The truck went silent. He rearranged some wires and soon enough, the engine revved to life. Rico chuckled from the driver's seat, gripping the wheel.

"You scare me sometimes," Kowalski stated dryly, closing the front and climbing into the passenger's seat. He barely had time to buckle in before Rico sped off. "Gah!" He grabbed onto the handle above the door to try and steady himself. "Subtly Rico!"

Reluctantly, the maniac slowed down. He glanced at Kowalski, raising an eyebrow.

Despite the fact that he didn't say anything, Kowalski knew what he was asking. He looked down at the files Skipper had given him, flipping them open to peer at the contents inside. "They don't make a whole lot of sense. I'll have to decode them before we know where to go next."

Rico shrugged. How Kowalski managed to decode everything he'd never know, but then again it wasn't his job. He wasn't really listening when Kowalski began to ramble on about what he'd have to do, but then again, Kowalski didn't really expect him to. He often just spoke to himself. 'Speaking to oneself is a mark of genius', he would point out to anyone who sent him a weird or exasperated look for the habit.

When they turned into the airport parking lot, Rico skidded the truck to a stop, leaving behind a black track and the smell of burnt rubber. Kowalski looked through the glove compartment, finding sticky notes and a pen. He wrote a little 'Sorry' on a note, sticking it to the steering wheel as Rico hopped out. He also left some money in the glove compartment, hoping it would cover the damage he'd done to the wiring. Someone would report the vehicle as stolen and someone would find it at the airport. It would be as simple as that.

Rico rolled his eyes.

* * *

"Private!"

The boy almost jumped out of his skin when he heard the commanding voice. He whirled around, removing the hat that he'd been trying on and placing it back on the rack. He smiled sheepishly. "Yes Skippa?"

"C'mon," Skipper ordered as he passed. "We're going to the airport."

Private nodded, falling into step behind the leader. "Did everything go well?"

"More or less." Skipper glanced over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes as he saw two men behind them, sprinting their way. "Shit." He grabbed Private's wrist and began to run.

Private stumbled a step or two before managing to find his balance and run behind Skipper. He looked back, heart pounding as he saw one of the men draw a gun. The market people screamed, ducking down and out of the way. Private picked up the pace, stepping a few paces away from Skipper.

Why did people always use guns these days? What happened to good old fashioned fisticuffs?

Skipper grabbed Private by the sleeve, dragging him along as they turned sharply into an alley. He gasped in surprise as he suddenly hit a wall before realizing that it was, indeed, his leader. Skipper shushed him, pressing his back to the wall.

"They turned this way!"

Skipper gave a hand signal. When the men turned the corner, he and Private attacked. Skipper grabbed his opponent's wrist and turned his body so that his back faced his chest. Pulling down on the man's wrist, he used all his strength to flip him over his own body and slam him hard into the ground. The man released his gun, the weapon clattering to the ground. Private punched his own opponent in the gut before grabbing his shirt and pulling it up over the man's head, blinding him. He made a blind shot.

Skipper hissed he felt a sharp sting in his arm. "Private!"

"S-Sorry Skippa!" Private twisted the man's wrist and swept his foot under his legs, causing him to drop the gun and hit the ground. Private hurried to his teammate's side to assess the damage. "Are you alright?"

"Just grazed me," Skipper answered, ignoring the sting. "C'mon." He started running again. Private furrowed his brows in worry and guilt, but followed.

When they reached the airport, Rico and Kowalski were waiting for them. "This way," Skipper ordered, never losing a step. His team followed him as he by-passed the doors, moving instead to the gates keeping them out. "Rico."

Rico cupped his hands together, resting them on one knee. He gave each of his teammates a boost, helping them over the fence before climbing up himself. They dropped down simultaneously. Skipper peered around before his eyes fell on a small, silver plane. "There he is."

They slowed their pace a bit, relieved to see the end of this little adventure. Waiting at the door of the plane was a man dressed in red. He motioned them inside. Each man nodded a thanks, climbing up the little set of stairs. Inside the plane it was cool and calming, a breath of fresh air after the danger they'd faced. Rico quickly set to making himself comfortable, sinking into a velvet couch and sighing happily. Skipper began to shrug off his coat, cringing.

"I'm sorry Skippa," Private said, quickly assisting him.

"Don't apologize, Private," Skipper grumbled, reaching out to ruffle the Private's hair. "Next time, disarm him _before _you blind him, will you?" The boy still had a lot to learn.

Private fought the urge to apologize again, simply nodding. "Let me see it," Kowalski said as Skipper pulled off his tie and shrugged of his shirt as well. He was not a stranger to bullet wounds, but they still sucked, and he had to fight a cringe again as his arm moved. Kowalski took his forearm, studying the wound on his bicep.

"What's the damage?"

"It'll be fine. Just needs a little cleaning and a couple of stitches."

"Stitches?" Skipper repeated, practically jumping away from the intellectual. "Don't be ridiculous, it's not that bad!"

Kowalski had almost forgotten. He smiled wryly. "How about a tissue adhesive?" He asked. "No needles involved."

Skipper glared at him, grumbling, "It's not about the needle." Still he sat down again.

"Of course not," Kowalski answered patiently. "Rico?"

Rico, who had been close to falling asleep, cracked open an eye and tilted his head back to look at the others. He reached into one of the many deep pockets in his trench-coat, finding a little bottle that he threw toward Kowalski. The tallest of the four caught it, nodding a thanks before setting to work on cleaning and 'stitching' Skipper's wound. When he finished, Kowalski bound his arm carefully.

"Should we call-" Private started, only to be cut off,

"We'll call him when Kowalski's done with those files."

Kowalski and Private both nodded. Rico had already nodded off, perfectly comfortable. Kowalski sat at a small table, opening the file and setting to work. Private joined him at the table, though only to watch and offer ideas. Skipper set to making himself some coffee. He needed a warm drink to calm his nerves. Soon enough, they'd be dealing with wherever these drug smugglers had led them.


	3. Red

A/N: So sorry guys, I've been having a lot of stuff going on. Here's chapter 2 to make up for it! Sorry it's short, the rest of what I had planned didn't work well with this chapter. I'll update soon, though! Promise!

**Under Wraps**

**Chapter 2: Red**

Kowalski nearly jumped out of his skin when a gentle 'clack' shook the table he was working at. Blinking blearily, he lifted his eyes to the offender, a gray mug with a blue fish painted on it. He smiled wryly, recognizing the old thing. It was Skipper's favorite. How he always managed to get it between their assignments he would never know, but then again, there were a lot of things about their leader that he would never know. Not even after knowing him for so many years.

He followed hand that held the mug, up a suit-clad arm to Skipper's face. "You should be resting," Kowalski pointed out. Rico had been crashed out on the sofa since they first boarded the private plane, and Private had curled up in an armchair himself, his small body fitting perfectly into it's corner.

"Strangely enough," Skipper responded, sitting across from him and pushing the old mug toward his teammate, "rest does not come easily after you've been shot."

Kowalski thankfully took the coffee, taking a slow sip of the warm, bitter liquid. "Again," he supplied, amusement causing his lips to quirk upwards.

Skipper snorted softly. "Again."

Shaking his head, the taller looked back down at his work. The papers from the file were spread out in front of him, organized in a manner that only he could even begin to understand. There were scribbles and equations written out over various pieces and scribbled out again in frustration. He had been at it for at least four hours.

"How is it going?"

"I'm almost done," Kowalski sighed. "It was more complicated than I had previously imagined it would be." A slight quirk of the eyebrow from Skipper and he quickly amended, "Not that I doubted my abilities at all. I simply hadn't prepared myself for several hours of work, rather than one."

Skipper rolled his eyes at the genius's ego. "Okay, so they're smart."

"Not just smart," Kowalski furrowed his brows again, taking his pen and beginning to scribble down notes again. "Whoever coded this, likely their leader, is a genius. Almost as intelligent as me."

The leader frowned. That was certainly interesting, but he still didn't know what it meant. He sighed, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. All he could do now was wait, he supposed. Skipper leaned against the wall, closing his eyes.

Skipper jolted awake as he felt a touch to his shoulder, on hand instantly shooting up to catch someone's wrist in a firm grip. Rico looked down at him calmly, accustomed to his jumpy ways. Blinking slowly, Skipper released him and rubbed his eyes. "Careful soldier, or I might throw you out a window some time." They exchanged wry smiles, both knowing how dangerously true that was.

He stood up and stretched widely. Kowalski had just finished cleaning up the files. He pressed a button on one of the walls, sending out a silent signal. Almost instantly, a man dressed in red came from the back of the plane, approaching. Kowalski handed him the files to be carried off.

"Do you need anything else, sir?"

"Supper would be lovely," Private piped up, smiling as he rubbed the back of his neck.

The man nodded and was gone as quickly as he'd come. Skipper reached into his pocket, removing a sleek black phone. "Are we ready, then?" Three affirmations and the leader began to dial. The four of them sat around the table and Skipper placed the phone in the center of them, set on speaker.

One ring. Two.

"_Good evening boys. I trust all went well."_

"All as planned," Skipper confirmed.

"We just sent the information-"

"_I have it right here."_

Kowalski still had his mouth open, staring at the phone blankly. "Wh-what? How did you get it so fast?"

"_Technology these days is fantastic, isn't it?_"

Another moment of silence from the intellectual before he groaned softly, resting his forehead against the table. Rico patted his back consolingly while Private tried to fight off his giggles.

Rolling his eyes, Skipper continued. "So, what next?"

"_Always eager for the next job. Very well. I will look over these files and have your assignment ready for you by the time you return to headquarters. Please, enjoy yourselves until then."_

A soft click indicated that the conversation was over. Skipper furrowed his brows, clearly annoyed, but he could say nothing. Kowalski raised his head enough to look at the others, his chin still on the table. "A bit abrupt, wasn't it? I'd thought…"

Private shrugged. "Maybe he had things to do. He's a very important man, after all,"

Rico growled softly, giving no other response than that. It didn't matter anyways because only seconds later, four men dressed in red had filed into the room, each carrying a silver platter with them. They set the dishes before the team, uncovering them. There was an excellent fish dinner for each of them and the men quickly set to pouring drinks.

"I don't care how rude he is if he keeps this up."

* * *

The plane landed at John F. Kennedy International Airport. The team filed out to a black Mercedes with tinted windows. A man dressed in red handed them the keys and walked away. Rico snatched the keys, clearly planning on driving, but Skipper stopped him, taking them back and holding them out to Private instead.

"You're not allowed to drive when we're trying to blend in, remember, Rico?"

Rico pouted, reluctantly climbing into the back with Kowalski instead. Skipper, naturally was at the front. He crossed his arms as they began to drive, glaring out the windows as he watched the people of New York going about their day. The entire drive to the very plain-looking office building he spent glaring out the window at the city. It was nothing unusual. He was always like this when they came back to the city.

When they finally did enter the office building, hit with a wave of air-conditioning, it seemed to be buzzing with people. They were all dressed similarly in suits, though unlike the team's they varied in color. Skipper clenched his jaw and nodded to his men. Kowalski moved to his right, walking immediately beside him. Behind them was Rico, and Private trailed at the very end, resisting the urge to wave to people familiar to him, though he still smiled.

Walking through the halls, they earned a lot of attention, sometimes glares, sometimes looks of awe, the occasional mutter of 'psychotic'. No matter what, though, they were known in that building.

"Rhodes."

Skipper pursed his lips, stopping before the man in front of them, dressed in a brown suit. "Canfield. What do you want?"

"I want to know where you and your team have been," Canfield narrowed his eyes, his gaze flickering between each one of them. "You've been gone for nearly a week."

Skipper held up a hand to silence Private before he could even think to speak. The youngest of the group smiled sheepishly, remaining quietly. "We were called by someone higher up."

"Can't talk about it," Kowalski threw in helpfully. "Confidential."

"Come on boys," Skipper ordered, starting down the hall again.

Canfield grabbed Kowalski by the wrist stopping him as the others continued. "You four can't just go running off."

Politely, Kowalski plucked the hand away from him. "Actually, we can." He offered an apologetic smile. "It's not our choice. It's just orders. Surely you understand that." Shrugging, he followed after his team again. Canfield watched them suspiciously, tensing as he saw Rico glare at him over his shoulder.

"He's just doing his job, Skippa," Private pointed out quietly.

"He's accusing _my team_ of something," Skipper corrected him firmly. He could respect a man doing his job, but when it came to his team, he was very protective of them.

When they stepped into Skipper's office - it was immaculately clean, mostly because how very little time he spent in it - there was a woman in red waiting for them. She straightened herself, not speaking a word as she handed the leader the file and made her way swiftly out of the room. Skipper forced himself not to glare at her. He didn't like people going into his office without his permission. Even if it was on higher authority.

The office was still dark. It had only one large window which was constantly covered by black curtains, as he didn't like to leave himself open for anyone. He turned on a lamp, leaning back against his desk while his team stood at attention before him, each waiting for him to finish skimming through the pages.

Skipper's eyes widened to the size of teacups and he threw the folder down. "No."

Startled, Private knelt down to pick it up. "What is it, Skippa?" he asked, opening it up. Rico and Kowalski curiously peered over his shoulders to read as well.

Kowalski immediately located the problem. "The head of the drug ring is centralized in New York City?" He could not mask the surprise that came to his voice. "All the way across the ocean? That kind of power…" The strategies expert looked up, frowning as he saw Skipper dialing at his phone again. He sent the call once. No answer. Twice. No answer. Three times….

Growling in frustration, Skipper slammed the phone down onto his desk. "He can't do this, can he?" He began to pace, pushing his hands into his pockets to keep them from fidgeting. "This can't be it. Maybe you were wrong, Kowalski, maybe you didn't decode it right."

Kowalski bristled, forcing himself no to be offended by that. "Impossible. I checked myself. Several times."

Private frowned, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "It's not so bad, Skippa. I know you don't like it here, but we're not just going to give up, are we?"

That brought the leader to a halt. He clenched his fists in his pockets, took a deep breath, and collected himself again. "No. Of course not." There was enough tension in him to launch an arrow, but his appearance of calm was there again. "Kowalski, read the details."

Kowalski nodded, taking the folder. "The head of the drug ring is centralized in New York City. The leader has been staying under cover to avoid suspicion and has been tracked to a single area. Our job is to go under cover as well, to investigate and relay information. We can, by no means, be discovered."

Private lit up with childish excitement. "You mean we're going to be incognito?"

Skipper smirked wryly. While that was always fun, he wished it could have been anywhere else. In the jungle, in some third world country, in the middle of a massive war, anywhere but New York.

"Looks like it."


End file.
